


Heart Sounds

by T Verano (t_verano)



Category: The Sentinel (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Community: sentinel_thurs, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sentinel Thursday
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-15
Updated: 2015-03-15
Packaged: 2020-03-07 14:35:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18875167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/t_verano/pseuds/T%20Verano
Summary: Jim listens to Blair, and things get better.





	Heart Sounds

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Sentinel Thursday challenge 522: 'whine'

"Leave the sling on, Chief," Jim says, earning himself a scowl from Blair. It's the fourth time he's said it so far this evening and he's aware that his tone of voice is a little on the testy side, but Blair's earned it. 

"I hate this thing," Blair mutters peevishly, and Jim silently concurs. Even though his outlook on life is better now that they're back at the loft — both of them — the sling is a glaring reminder of things that Jim remembers far too well anyway. Of failure. 

_His_ failure.

Blair rolls his eyes. Either the recent blood loss has made him psychic or Jim can rack up another failure on his score card (the "Keeping Emotions Where They Belong" column seems to be doing particularly badly), since Blair's next words are, "Will you stop that? It wasn't your fault." 

He still sounds peevish. Jim supposes that's only fair, since they've had the "It wasn't your fault" conversation at least twice as many times now as the "This sling sucks" one. 

Because they _have_ had this conversation so many times, Jim doesn't say, "You were there because of me." He doesn't say, "You were in the wrong place at the wrong time because I brought you with me." He doesn't say, "How the hell is it not my fault?"

He doesn't say anything. 

After a long moment, Blair sighs and uses his good hand to pat the couch next to where he's camped out. "Sit," he says. It's an order, or it might as well be; Jim can't deny him much right now. He doesn't really _want_ to deny him this, anyway.

Maybe he doesn't want to deny himself this, either.

Still, when he sits down, he leaves space between them. Jostling Blair is not on the menu tonight. Or tomorrow, or anytime soon; underneath the thick layers of bandaging, Blair's arm is more stitchwork than skin. 

Space between them or not, Jim's plenty close enough to feel the heat from Blair's body. Heat — normal, healthy heat — not a clammy, rapidly increasing, terrifying chill. It feels good.

It feels good until Blair heaves another sigh and pokes him in the hip. "That's good, Jim," he says — _still_ sounding peevish — "but you know what? I've got a better idea. Stand up for a minute."

Jim finds himself standing up, and then he finds himself lying down on the sofa, his back propped up against the cushions of the arm, with Blair stretching out — carefully, thank God — on top of him, back to front, like Jim's his new couch.

Jim shakes his head and huffs a sound that's supposed to be a rueful laugh (on Blair's score card, "Playing by the Rules" still sits stubbornly at zero), but ends up muffled against the back of Blair's head as he gingerly settles himself against Jim. "Definitely better," Blair says with obvious satisfaction, tugging on Jim's hand until Jim's got his arm wrapped more tightly around Blair's rib cage, and Jim has to admit he has a point.

Ten minutes or so into the arrangement, and Jim's willing to admit it's a very good point. Blair's a warm, relaxed weight covering Jim like a blanket. He smells like shampoo and soap and himself, despite the intrusive chemical tang of antibiotics and antiseptic ointment. His breathing is slow and steady, just as it should be. His heartbeat is slow and steady. Just as it should be.

Everything is just as it should be.

****************

_The lights inside the parking garage hurt his eyes. Blair crouches beside him behind the car; his breath is ragged and fast, scared. It hurts Jim's ears. The gunshots don't; they're Jim's job, part of Jim's job, and he's already located both of the shooters. Now he just needs to —_

_A bullet hits a nearby post and ricochets off it with a whine that should be losing itself harmlessly in the distance, but isn't, it isn't, it fucking isn't —_

_The small thud it makes, punching into Blair's arm, the small, shocked sound Blair makes as it does — those sounds will hurt Jim's ears for a very long time._

_One quick glance at Blair tells Jim too much. "Focus," his mind says to itself calmly, and "You can do this." His mind is using Blair's voice now, Blair's unshakably confident voice, and Jim_ does _it: training and experience and senses work together seamlessly in ten perfectly orchestrated seconds and the shooters are down. Permanently._

_Then he's got an ambulance on the way and a tourniquet on Blair's arm, and with every agonizing second it becomes clearer that neither of those things might be enough. The bullet's still in there, doing more damage, and blood is still welling out far too fast to join the fucking lake of it surrounding him and Blair, and Blair —_

_Blair is leaving him._

_Jim wants to shake him. He wants to shout, "Don't you fucking dare." He wants to be furious._

_What he_ is, _though, is terrified. He presses his lips against Blair's clammy forehead. "Stay with me, Chief," he says. "Need you to stay with me here."_

_Maybe he says other things, too. He doesn't know; he's stopped listening to himself. All he can hear is the sound of Blair's body shutting down, the sound of Blair leaving him —_

"Hey," Blair says, "Jim," and his voice is wrong — no, it's right: it's not a barely there, bewildered whisper, laced with pain and fear; it's quiet, but strong. Calm. Reassuring. "Jim, wake up," Blair says, and he sounds like sunshine feels, like honey tastes, and Jim manages to open his eyes, because — 

Because Blair didn't leave him.

"I'm here," Blair says — sunshine, honey, fucking _psychic_ — and, "I'm not going anywhere." 

One of these days Jim might even be able to believe that again. "Good," he says for now, because it's all he _can_ say, and he takes in a deep, slow, careful breath and lets himself listen to the perfect beat of Blair's heart.


End file.
